Questions
by Minerva Solo
Summary: uncanny x-men: Bobby's going through a lot. A lot. In some ways, the disturbing dreams are almost a relief, especially since they're so unrealistic. They are unrealistic, right? Finished
1. Part 1

**Questions**

_A/N: Having duly been sucked in to this fandom, I'm already working hard on another fic. Since I'm under a lot of stress right now, I'll probably be putting up two or three chapters a day (honk if you love escapism!). Must say, if I met Iceman the way I've written him here, I'd probably slap him. People who pity themselves because no one understands their problems, and then martyr themselves because people shouldn't be asking what those problems are, oh no, they ought to just _know, _really get on my nerves. Possibly because I am one._

_Anyway…__ Summary? Bobby's taking more and more refuge in his dreams as his life gets harder to deal with, but some times he just wants to break down the barrier and bring those dreams to life._

_Disclaimer: Bobby, Jean Paul and the rest of the gang belong to Marvel and co. I'm making no money from this._

_Warnings: m/m, language, occasional evil cliffhangers, billions of rhetorical questions (why else the title?)_

**Part one – Why do we dream?**

Bobby had heard once that dreams were just a mish-mash of everything that had happened that day. That interpretation was comforting to him as he sat panting in bed, one hand pressed to his crotch.

He'd found out Jean Paul was gay, hadn't he? And he'd kissed Annie, right? Well, was it such a stretch to imagine that the two had just, you know, got a bit mixed, and well, he was very lonely and it was just a naturally reaction, wasn't it?

Bobby climbed slowly out of bed. He avoided looking at the sticky patch he left behind. He hadn't meant to glance across at the mirror, but it was so much habit now and the movement in the dark caught his eye anyway. He paused. Normally this would be when he started tearing up, or getting angry, or finding it hard to breath. Just looking at that patch, which had grown again, he could tell, usually produced so many responses. For a split second he was grateful for the dream. The emotional feedback from that had temporarily blown the circuits, and he could regard his affliction with something approaching neutrality.

Lorna and Alex were getting married today, he remembered dully. He forced down the hope that someone would threaten the fate of the earth during the ceremony. Lorna and Alex deserved this, right? A bit of happiness. Didn't they all deserve a bit of happiness?

Ah, there were those tears. Well, he couldn't stand here bemoaning his fate all night. Better not to think about it. Better to go and have a cold shower and not think about the dream.

What if Jean Paul actually did kiss like that though? Bobby stood under the cool spray and absently ran a finger around the edge of the skin surrounding his new ice-cream centre. Annie hadn't kissed him like that, or rather, he hadn't kissed Annie like that. He wanted to find out. It was ridiculous, but he suddenly felt he couldn't live without knowing.

Bobby shook his head firmly, shaking the notion out of it. He frowned at the misty silhouette on the white tiles. Well, at least it had been the gay team mate. Imagine trying to imagine what kissing, say, Logan would be like. He chuckled quietly to himself, before realising that he was still thinking that it would be worth kissing Jean Paul.

It was stupid anyway. No one kissed like that. Everything was always so perfect in dreams, so precisely what he wanted. He hadn't even had the ice on his chest. He couldn't remember ever looking down in the dream, but he knew instinctively that it hadn't been there, growing like a cancer across his body. He picked viciously at the edge of it, but his fingers just slipped across it. Not put off, he continued scratching until the adjoining skin stained the water pooled at his feet pink.

Stupid dreams. Stupid weddings. Stupid gay Canadians. Stupid mutations. Stupid imminent, lonely deaths. Stupid.

* * *

Breakfast was a solitary affair for Bobby Drake. Anyone who attempted to make it otherwise received a glare as cold as only he could make it. If someone wanted to make nice to him this morning they'd better be wearing a ski jacket.

Bobby could feel eyes on him. Gay Canadian eyes. At first, he thought he was just being paranoid. Why would Jean Paul be staring at him? So just because it felt Jean Paul was staring at him didn't mean he was. Bobby glanced around, just to make sure, and caught Jean Paul ducking his head to stare firmly at his breakfast. And then, a few minutes late, Bobby saw him turn his head sharply to the left. Dammit, the man _was_ staring at him. On a third attempt Bobby managed to even catch his eye before he turned away. Hah, gotcha!

The paranoia crashed in again. Jean Paul couldn't possibly know about the dream. Their rooms were practically on opposite sides of the building. Couldn't have heard anything, not at all. And the curtains had been shut, so he wouldn't have seen anything if he _had_ been spying. It wasn't like Bobby had a sign pinned to his chest that read "I had a wet dream about the gay Canadian last night" written on it.

But he did have something else on his chest. Bobby glanced down hurriedly, then ran cool fingers around the base of his neck. No, thank god. Oh thank god. He'd had to bandage his chest anyway that morning, after the night's damage. It wasn't his fault it was so like a giant scab. He just wanted to pick all the ice away and reveal a shiny new, yet just like the old, Bobby underneath. A Bobby who wasn't short with his friends and cruel to his acquaintances. A Bobby who didn't try and hurt others just because he was hurting, who didn't kiss people he wasn't particularly attracted to just because he was lonely, who didn't obsess over disturbing dreams as a way of escaping reality. Oh, and a Bobby who wasn't going to get his heart torn to shreds throughout this ceremony.

* * *

Bobby thought the day's events would reply for him that night, as well. Some nightmarish confusion of the wrong people going off with the wrong people and him being left alone. Instead, when he closed his eyes Jean Paul was there for him, waiting. Bobby didn't wait for a reason to kiss him this time. He just clung and prayed he'd never wake up. He did, occasionally, but slowly he found himself looking forwards to the dream more and more. Once or twice he forced another face over Jean Paul's, but the effort that took lost the dream its momentum. Anyway, it was just kissing. Kisses so good they made him come in his sleep. Obviously not realistic, and nothing to worry about.

Maybe a month later he was woken from the dream still hard, an unusual occurrence. For a moment unable to work out what woke him, unable to see who to rain his wrath on, he peered around the darkness. Eventually he recognised the faint sound of the television downstairs somewhere. He leant back in bed and worked on getting his breath back, fondling his cock idly. Part of him was disgusted that after a dream like that he still wanted to get off using the same imagery, another part was just so glad that at least some part of him was still whole and human that it didn't care whether the person behind his eyes was male or female. He sucked on the side of his cheek and thought hard about those perfect kisses. If Jean Paul did kiss like that, well, Lord help him but Bobby would act out every detail of those dreams.

Bobby let his head fallback against the headboard and moaned through clenched teeth. Imagine that mouth, that perfect for kissing mouth, perfectly placed elsewhere. Bobby figured, as he pumped and pictured, that this didn't count as gay. After all, it could be anyone who kissed like that, who sucked him off like that. His subconscious had just attached Jean Paul's face to that action because, well, because he might be good at it. Probably got a lot of practise, being gay and all. It didn't say anything about Bobby's sexuality because, well the fates weren't that cruel, were they? He couldn't be both dying and gay, right?

Bobby took himself over the edge before he could chase that line of thought any further. All that mattered was this didn't make him any less heterosexual.

The television was still on downstairs. Bobby caught a few 'Amen's and guessed it was Nightcrawler. Not many other people willing to watch the televangelists without ridicule. Bobby pictured Kurt there, room dark except for the television, mouthing the sermons to himself. Kurt wore his heart on his sleeve sometimes; it wasn't hard to tell his faith was troubling him right now.

For a moment Bobby wanted to go and offer some comfort to his friend, but he squashed the sentiment without really thinking why. It just felt inappropriate, was all. Being nice to a lot of people felt inappropriate these days.

Bobby sighed into his pillow. He knew. He knew why he was doing this and the guilt was killing him. It was almost enough to make him go downstairs and talk to Nightcrawler, maybe even tell him the truth. But Nightcrawler wouldn't understand. He'd been 'obvious' his whole life. Angel was the same, Warren Worthington, one of his best and oldest friends, had been forced to live with wings since before Bobby had known him. And Hank, another old friend, he'd been forced to get used to standing out in the crowd as well. Who else? Too many to count, really. Rogue, unable to touch anyone, Gambit with his red eyes, even people like Toad and The Blob. They'd all 'been there, done that'. What right did Bobby have to make a fuss about a change in appearance?

But he wanted to. He wanted to stand up and say "Look at me, I'm changing. Make it stop." He didn't want to be like those other people. He didn't want to be like some of the people he most admired in the world. It was fine for them to be obvious, but dear little Bobby Drake was deeply attached to his ability to pass for normal. He couldn't tell anyone because it would be obvious he didn't like it, and what message would that put across?

He rolled over and punched the mattress. From where he lay he could see the mirror and pushed down the sheets to stare solemnly at the place where flesh and blood used to be. Was he that person? Annie had called him homophobic and racist. Was he one of those people who was fine with people being different as long as he didn't know anyone like that? Was he happy for other people to be gay or foreign or obviously mutants, but when it came to himself he held different standards?

Bobby threw himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants so viciously he split them. Sighing and forcing himself to calm, he found another pair and an old t-shirt. If he wasn't going to sleep at least he ought to go and speak to Nightcrawler. Maybe apologise for that unfortunate remark about 'just the five of us' he'd made. Perhaps he could get Nightcrawler to talk about what was bothering him, and distract himself that way. Bobby yanked the t-shirt on and frowned at his reflection in the mirror. Okay, so he wasn't going to go and pour his heart out to Nightcrawler. At least he could be nice, unless he'd forgotten how to do that. Maybe the ice was infecting his brain.

He moved quietly down the stairs, conscious that most of the building was asleep. He approached the rec. room silently and paused in the doorway. That wasn't Nightcrawler, and that wasn't one of those Christian channels. Oh fuck. It was Jean Paul, and that was...

"Oh God, Jimmy, give it to me harder!"

...and that was gay porn, wasn't it? Bobby retreated hastily around the corner again, back to the wall.

"Hallelujah!"

"I bet Father O'Connell never told you it could be like this, eh?"

"Amen!"

Oh god. Oh _god_. How could he have thought _this_ was religious programming? It was sacrilegious, if anything. And it sounded so raw, all panting breath and slapping flesh, and so messy. Bobby screwed his eyes shut and wondered if it could get any worse. Walking in on his gay team mate, his wank fantasy, watching porn.

"Give it t-"

Oh shit. He'd just turned the television off.

"Is... is anyone there?"

Oh shit oh shit oh shit. And the stairs were on the other side of the door. Oh shit. What was he going to say? Oh shit.

"Ah merde!"

Bobby opened one eye to see a furiously blushing Jean Paul standing in front of him.

"'a'er," Bobby croaked.

"What?" Jean Paul swallowed.

"Water. I came down for water," Bobby lied desperately.

Jean Paul just stood and blushed. This would be a great time to retort on the ever witty Jean Paul's loss for words, Bobby decided, but as the riposte formed on his tongue Jean Paul licked his lips and for a moment Bobby thought his knees were going to give way. He grabbed the doorway helplessly.

"I didn't mean to," Bobby swallowed, "intrude." Jean Paul bit his lip and Bobby fought the mad urge to scold him. "I'll just get some water and l-leave you in p-peace, okay?"

"Oui," Jean Paul murmured. He was staring at his own feet with a suspicious interest. Bobby was reminded at Jean Paul's interest in him at breakfast. He tugged nervously on his t-shirt. He stepped away from the wall, intent on reaching the kitchen without thinking anything more disturbing that night, but Jean Paul didn't react. Bobby halted, centimetres from Jean Paul. The older man had a glazed look in his eyes as he brought them up to meet Bobby's. Jean Paul's fly was undone, Bobby realised dazedly. If he didn't kiss him now he'd never know if his dreams were surpassing reality. He actually was thirsty, now he thought about it.

Their lips met.

Their mouths opened. Jean Paul traced his tongue along Bobby's bottom lip and took control of the kiss. Bobby closed his eyes and kept his arms at his sides as he stretched up to hold the kiss, letting Jean Paul kiss him tenderly. He kissed back, wondering if Jean Paul could taste how badly he needed this. And when Jean Paul broke the kiss, tracing his tongue one last time across Bobby's lips, he collapsed back against the wall.

"Oh fuck," Bobby moaned, eyes still closed. "You actually kiss like that." He pushed away from the wall and past Jean Paul, bolting up the stairs and into his own room, locking the door for good measure.


	2. Part 2

**Part two – What happens when we die?**

Bobby didn't much feel like questioning his sexuality. He'd probably die soon anyway, so it was a waste of time, and what was the point in working out he liked guys if he was only going to face the same problem he had with girls, primarily that he was turning into a block of ice. Hardly attractive.

Still... he probably wasn't quite as straight as he'd liked to think he was. Or he was far more desperate than he'd given himself credit for. And the dreams increased in intensity too, moving further than simple kisses. Was he going to sneak around at night to find Jean Paul and demand he wrap a hand around his cock, or suck his balls, or take him up the arse? Bobby didn't think so. Fine, the man was _physically_ attractive, but he was still the most arrogant and pompous twit Bobby knew.

Jean Paul seemed to be avoiding him now. _Good_, Bobby thought vehemently, but when he noticed Annie giving him a speculative look his heart sank. _Of course_ Jean Paul had told her. Probably laughed about what an atrocious kisser he was. He just hadn't had as much practised as he would have liked, that was all, and it was hardly through lack of trying. Unless girls had a better sense for this things and he was really, properly gay and then it was no wonder Lorna had never slept with him. Again, not through lack of trying.

It was raining outside, maybe a week later, and Bobby was wandering aimlessly through the house. His stroll took him to the school library. Mostly textbooks, with the occasional thesis by Hank or the Professor. And oh, what was that over there? Well, lookit. A book with Jean Paul on the cover. Bobby snorted and picked the copy up from the floor. He frowned at the blurb on the back. Jean Paul had written a book about being a gay mutant? No wonder he hadn't felt the need to actually tell people.

Bobby was completely engrossed when Jean Paul found him.

"I... we need to talk."

Bobby ignored him and raised the book slightly.

"Bobby, I want to talk to you about the other night."

Bobby held the book directly in front of his face so he could see nothing but it. Jean Paul ripped it from his hands.

"Robert Drake, could you act like an adult just for once? We need to talk," Jean Paul insisted.

"When someone is reading, and makes a point of continuing to read, it's generally a sign they aren't interested in idle chitchat," Bobby said frostily, retrieving the book and trying to find his lost place.

Jean Paul's eyes widened when he got a proper look at the book cover. Bobby smirked at him. "You have a very engaging writing style," he informed the Canadian gentleman. "I forgot to eat lunch."

Actually, he'd forgotten to eat several meals recently. He just wasn't hungry any more. But thirsty? He was drinking like a fish. He'd tried to stop, to see if it slowed the growth of the ice, but he'd almost passed out from dehydration. Even now there was a large glass of water next to him, and he drank from it, not taking his eyes off Jean Paul. One advantage of being the Iceman was the ability to draw water molecules out of the air to form ice, which eventually turned to nice chill water.

Jean Paul visibly swallowed. It had probably taken him a long time to work up the nerve for this, Bobby figured. Still he was doing the guy a favour, really. From the chapter he'd reached in the book, it seemed he didn't tend to take it well when people he cared about died. Gotta be cruel to be kind, and all that.

"Iceman," Jean Paul seemed more comfortable with the codename, "we can't just leave this hanging."

"It was a week ago," Bobby pointed out calmly. "If there was anything significant to say, it would, I'm sure, have been said by now."

"Iceman, I need to know _why_," Jean Paul said, self composure hanging by a thread.

Bobby rearranged his legs and curled them beneath him. "You sound like a girl," he said. He could feel Jean Paul's glower without looking at him. He turned a page.

"I'm not asking much, Robert," Jean Paul said coolly. "I'm just... curious."

_Like fuck_, Bobby thought. It made his heart beat faster though, knowing that the kiss had affected Jean Paul. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly.

"Robert, Bobby, I just want to talk like adults about this."

"You caught me at a vulnerable time," Bobby half-lied.

"Because of Lorna," Jean Paul guessed.

"Yeah, her," Bobby shrugged. "But there's more, okay? So don't go around telling people I'm all upset just because of some girl. I've got my own things going on."

"I suppose it's no secret, now, that I'm... attracted to you," Jean Paul said in a deep voice. Bobby's stomach flip-flopped. "I like you a lot, Bobby Drake. Something is upsetting you and I want to help, you understand?"

"You find me attractive?"

"Yes, Bobby. Yes, I do. Must you sound so incredulous?"

"Do I look gay?" Bobby wondered aloud. "Maybe I give off gay vibes. Do I?"

Jean Paul looked like thunder.

"It would explain why women tend to go off me," Bobby went on. It was easier than thinking about Jean Paul's offer to help.

"Lorna told us the two of you never had sex."

Bobby's eyes snapped open. "She what?" he exclaimed. "Bitch!"

Jean Paul ran a hand through his hair and glanced away. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."

Bobby let his head fall against the back of the seat. If Jean Paul thought telling him something he already knew was going to hurt him he had another thing coming. Bobby was the queen supreme of hurting people right now. "Well, fine, you know. At the bachelor party thing, right? Well, I kissed Annie." Even in his mind, that sounded disjointed.

"Oh," Jean Paul said weakly.

"You told her we kissed, didn't you?"

"Oui. She never told me that the two of you..."

Bobby shrugged. "I was feeling vulnerable." It seemed like a good blanket statement. No one would question it. And it was hatefully true too. As hard as he wanted to push people away he wanted to draw them to him as well. Didn't want to hurt or get hurt, but wanted those special moments. What would people think of a guy with a real heart of ice? Dying didn't bother him as much as it first had, but the loneliness never abated. He wasn't Nightcrawler. He couldn't love a life of celibacy.

"Are you feeling vulnerable now?" Jean Paul's voice was a husky whisper.

Bobby stared at him. He clutched the book like a shield across his lap. "D-don't take advantage of me," he swallowed. _Oh god, please_. _Please do. Take me now. Please._

Agony flashed across Jean Paul's face and Bobby was alone in the room. _Please, Jean Paul, please._

* * *

That night Bobby sat on the roof and tried not to cry. He locked the access and unbuttoned the front of his shirt, leaning on the rough stone and trying to ascertain whether he had any feeling in the spreading ice. It made a temporary distraction. One hideous part of his life to distract him from another. He could spend weeks alternating the two and getting by being merely depressed instead of mind-numbingly suicidal.

He'd tried to seek Jean Paul out, but Jean Paul was gone, missing lessons and everything. Bobby wasn't sure how to tell people that it was his fault. "I may have accidentally implied I thought he was going to rape me" wasn't going to inspire a lot of confidence.

"Bobby?" an accented voice emerged from the darkness behind him. Bobby couldn't believe in coincidence anymore, not after being an X-man for so long. It was a mansion full of telepaths, for heaven's sake. Who knew, maybe even Jean Paul was a mind reader. Or just chock full of bad timing.

Bobby couldn't summon the courage to turn around. "Jean Paul, what I said earlier... I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"How did you mean it?" the voice was emotionless, but closer.

"I... I took advantage of Annie when I kissed her. I know you're attracted to me. I'm vulnerable now, so fucking vulnerable you can't imagine it. If you try and take advantage of that... I'll get hurt. Or you will, I'm not sure. Either way, it's not going to be good. So just keep your hands in your pockets and walk away, okay, because I can't promise that I've got the control to do the same." Bobby took a deep breath and let his head droop. That had taken a lot of saying.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," the polite voice said. Before Bobby could turn around and start flinging ice he saw a pair of arms brace themselves either side of his body and felt Jean Paul, so close and not quite touching, warm his back. He whimpered.

"Perhaps I should have said don't let me take advantage of you," Bobby attempted to explain. "You have no idea what's going on right now. It's just a really bad time for there to even be a hint of anything."

"Ah," Jean Paul's breath tickled his ear. Jan Paul had those pointy ears, didn't he? Bobby wondered what they felt like.

"It would be best if you just flew away right now," Bobby said, a hint of pleading in his voice.

"What did you mean, the other night, when you said I kissed like that? Like what?" Jean Paul kissed his hair. Bobby felt a touch of anger at his presumptuousness. He wasn't even gay, for heaven's sake.

"I had a dream," Bobby said stiffly. "It was bugging me, because it seemed very unrealistic, the kiss."

"Was it us, kissing?" Jean Paul asked cautiously.

"Yes," Bobby croaked. "Yes, it was," he said more firmly. "It's not as though it implies anything important. I dream about kissing a lot of people. It's just one of my standard dreams. In fact," he went on triumphantly, "I'm more likely to dream about kissing someone I'm _not_ attracted to."

He could feel Jean Paul's body stiffen as he spoke. "I see," the Canadian mumbled. "You just wanted to... check."

Bobby stared over the wall. The ground was a beautifully long distance away. Jean Paul's arms gently wrapped themselves around Bobby, just missing the patch of ice.

"Bobby... Just tell me to back off. If that's what you want, if you're really not interested, I will."

Bobby ground his teeth. Why was Jean Paul not getting this? He didn't want him to back off. It wasn't anything about Jean Paul in particular. He just happened to be making himself available, that was all, and he had to stop that before Bobby could even think the words 'back off'.

"I'm interested in everyone," Bobby ground out. "Don't take it personally, okay?"

Jean Paul stepped back and Bobby began to breathe a sigh of relief. Still sucking air in he felt Jean Paul's firm hands on his shoulders and he was turned around, shirt gaping. The world stopped spinning

"Bobby," Jean Paul breathed, taking a hasty step back. "What..."

Bobby looked down. "It is a bit much, isn't it?" he agreed, voice empty. "Rather more than you were bargaining for, I suppose."

Jean Paul stared overtly, and Bobby obligingly opened his shirt still further. "It's spreading," he added. "It might kill me."

Jean Paul launched himself into the air and, though Bobby stayed on the roof all night, he didn't come back.

* * *

The exhaustion hit Bobby in the library. He hadn't been able to sleep after Jean Paul left. It was stupid, he knew. He'd been waiting for that to happen, hadn't he? He'd known it would not matter who he tried it with. So why did it hurt so much? It didn't look that repulsive to Bobby, but then, maybe he had just become used to it.

He glanced down at the book in his hands. Each page hurt, but he still wanted to finish it. Maybe there'd be some cue in it as to why Jean Paul had been so disgusted. Why else would he fly away? Well, there was fear, Bobby supposed. Maybe he thought it was catching. Or maybe he was just too freaked out to cope. Bobby had been, but there was no nice place to fly away from it for him.

Bobby's head nodded. People were still wondering where Jean Paul was. Bobby didn't bother tell them that he'd reappeared for a short time last night. He probably wouldn't come back now. Why should he? He'd never liked the x-men much in the first place.

What if Jean Paul had flown away because he knew someone who could help? The nagging hope never left Bobby, and he hated himself for it. Why did he keep torturing himself with these questions? Who can I go to? What can I do to stop it? Where will it spread next? When will it kill me? _Why me?_

He screwed up his eyes and let his head fall onto the desk with a solid thunk. He'd been doing a pretty good job of pushing people away recently. Warren was barely talking to him, Hank kept shooting him these looks that Bobby couldn't stand, Kurt had been hurt enough to avoid him, and now Jean Paul had flown away. He was going to die lonely and alone. That was the whole point, wasn't it? It was what he'd been _trying _to do. Stupid self-destructive impulses.

_Sleep_, Bobby begged wordlessly. _Sleep, please! Just a few minutes' relief. So tired._ His head began to pound relentlessly, each heart beat loud and solid and... slower? There was a rushing sound in his ears and his vision swam. He wondered if he was going to faint, but a coldness like he'd never felt clues him into what was happening.

"This is it," he said thickly, addressing an empty room.

It was so cold. Sometimes he couldn't even remember cold; it was something he hadn't really felt since he'd been a young child. He was the Iceman. He created ice, he held it and shaped it and walked on it and _owned_ it. Now the cold was burning him. _Maybe_, he thought giddily, _it's getting its own back._ His breaths were quick and shallow and the air smoked each time he breathed out. He took in less air each time, no matter how hard he tried. The thump of his heart that made his brain pulse was overwhelming. Since his sight was shot anyway, all heat waves and static like you get on a television with bad reception, and his hearing was nothing but an increasing roar, he closed his eyes and let the pain in his head and the pain in his chest take his whole attention. At least he didn't have to think. No last words, no final grand statement. He'd die unable to think, drowning in the white pain. White, like snow. Like the killing ice.

Ice.

Bobby collapsed over the table, lungs empty and heart still.


	3. Part 3

**Part Three – Which is more painful, hope or despair?**

_A/N: been going through the summaries. I hadn't realised that people had learnt about Bobby's second mutation already. So we'll just say this branches off from canon around the time of the failed wedding. Issue #426, I think. Feel free to correct me._

Bobby did the one thing he'd never expected: he woke up.

In the last place he thought he'd be: the library.

He'd just died, for fuck's sake. Was it too much to ask that someone notice?

He sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a hand. He was meant to be happy, for god's sake. He wasn't dead. Happy time. Celebrations. He was just going to turn into a block of ice. So what if that was one hurdle? No dead, so what? Maybe when it spread he'd be unable to move. What about that, huh? Or maybe it would kill him when it reached his brain. What kind of fun would that be?

Bobby cried shards of ice in the library, soaking Jean Paul's book. He wasn't dead.

* * *

It was Hank who found Bobby, curled up in a soggy ball in some dark and dusty corner of the library. He was dozing lightly, the occasionally tear still falling from frosted lashes as he slept.

It was easy to assume he was still upset over Lorna, or some other girl who'd spurned him. Hank ran a heavy finger across Bobby's cheek, smearing the tear streak. He'd known Bobby as long as any here, and he was really worried. And despite the dark rings gracing Bobby's eyes, Hank felt obliged to wake him up.

"Have you been here all along?" he asked when Bobby had blinked himself back to consciousness.

"All what?" Bobby frowned. Beast really wasn't the person he wanted to see just now. He'd had to adjust to no longer looking human, hadn't he? How was Bobby supposed to explain to him how badly he didn't want the same thing to happen to him without hurting his feelings? Because _god_, did he want to tell someone now.

"You've been missing for three days."

"Huh. Does no one turn the lights off at night in here any more?" Bobby squinted around.

"I think we should take you up to Annie," Hank decided. "You don't look good." There was spots and patches of something on Bobby's shirt, seeping through from underneath. Bobby idly slid a hand under his shirt and Hank helped him up and scratched at something, hard. As Hank watched the same liquid bloomed across Bobby's shirt. It looked like it ought to be blood, but...

"Bobby, stand still," Hank commanded.

Bobby glanced down.

Oh.

Oh shit.

He'd been picking at it again, hadn't he?

And now Hank was going to make him take off his shirt and that would be it, wouldn't it?

Oh shit. He wasn't ready for this. He couldn't face it yet. And it was getting so big now that it would be obvious how old it was and then what would he say? It was bad enough that he would be getting upset over something that had already happened to one of his best friends, but admitting he'd kept it a secret for so long would hurt him more. He did trust these people, dammit. He just didn't trust them not to pity him.

"Bobby," Hank said softly, raising his shaggy blue head. A wild urge to kiss that rough fur almost overcame Bobby. He was such a wonderful person.

"Don't make me," Bobby swallowed. "Not yet."

"Bobby, whatever it is, I'm sure we can help. You don't have to fight it alone."

"I shouldn't be fighting at all," Bobby said bitterly. "Everyone keeps offering to help before they even know what's going on. Don't you think if I wanted help I'd ask for it?"

Hank gave him an appraising look. "No," he said simply.

Bobby felt a hit of amusement before that black anger he was getting so used to closed over him. "Don't presume anything," he snarled. "You don't know me."

Hank didn't look particularly distressed. "Don't be an idiot, Bobby. I know you inside and out. I know that something has been upsetting you for months now. Some change."

Bobby swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes. "Just back off, okay? I told Jean Paul to." He paused. "Has he put in a reappearance yet?"

"Yes," Hank said. "In Canada."

Bobby shrugged. "Who wants guys like him around anyway?"

"You want to watch your mouth," Beast said coolly. "Some people might mistake what you're trying to say."

"He never belonged here. None of these people do. The X-men was about us, Hank. You and me and Jean and Scott and Warren. These kids should just fuck off home, I think. Back to Canada, back to wherever. We never needed them. Spend half our lives rescuing these wannabes."

"And the other half being rescued by them," Hank told him. "You never used to have this problem, Bobby."

"Maybe I did, and maybe I just kept my mouth shut," Bobby retorted. "How would you know?"

Hank sighed heavily. "Fine, Bobby, fine. I trust you to tell us when you've got no other option left to you. Whatever change has got you mouthing off like this must be bad, because it's been a long time since you've wanted to take things _that_ far back." He turned around and began to walk away. He paused mid-step looked over his shoulder. "This started when Angel and I came into our secondary mutations, didn't it? Both of our appearances changed over a relatively short space of time, and Warren can heal people now. Is that it? You feel left behind, perhaps, or the physical differences confuse you?"

Bobby stayed stubbornly silent.

"Look, just go and talk to Annie," Beast sighed. "You really do look like shit."

"Thanks, man," Bobby muttered as Hank disappeared, presumably to inform others that he was still alive. Which he wasn't, thanks for asking. Most people probably hadn't even noticed he was gone.

Ignoring Hank's advice, Bobby stumbled upstairs and locked himself in his room.

* * *

Bobby figured Jean Paul had rejoined Alpha Flight. He'd be head of the team again. Bobby supposed that being the leader made the arrogance look more like confidence. Anyway, after their attack on the mansion they were probably him back with open arms. It wasn't as though the rainbow maple had done anything during that brief fight.

Heh. Rainbow maple. He'd have to remember that one.

Bobby was doing his best not to be bitter. People _had_ noticed something was up with him. If he'd told them what was going on, he wouldn't have died alone. It was just... Nothing would make that stop hurting. He'd been fucking miserable recently, and no one even tried to approach him. People just came up afterwards and said "I noticed you were in a bad mood, what was wrong?" like all they wanted was to sate their curiosity.

He pulled off his shirt and peered into the mirror. He waved a hand behind him. Fun. He was slightly see-through. Translucent. He wiggled his fingers. Hallooo. He snorted. His other hand reached up and traced a pattern down his glass chest. There was definitely some feeling there, but it was more heat than pressure. He wondered bitterly if he'd melt.

Downstairs the television was on and a familiar theme tune was filtering through the floor.

_So no one told you life was gonna be this way_

Nope, they never did.

_Your job's a joke, you're broke, your love life's DOA_

It's was all one to Bobby! He was a walking ice cube, DOA himself, let alone his love life.

_It's like you're always stuck in second gear_

No, it was like he was always stuck in fifth, hurtling along towards the future unable to stop. Like that film, whatchimacallit. The bus one. Speed.

_When it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year_

All true.

_I'll be-_

That made Bobby laugh out loud. Of course they'd switch over there. They _weren't_ there for him. He was just Bobby alone. Even men fled him now. How was that for a DOA love life?

There was knock on the door, immediately followed by the creak of the hinges Bobby jerked round, grabbing the sheet to his chest. Annie demurely closed the door behind him.

"Most people wait for an invitation," Bobby snapped, dropping the sheet.

"You wouldn't have let me in," Annie said simply. "Hank told me he'd asked you to drop by. Even Xavier was getting worried, you'd been gone so long, and he knew you were in the building."

"So why didn't anyone come look for me?" Bobby sneered. "You really know how to make a guy feel loved, don't you?"

Annie was studying his chest closer. "It's right through now, isn't it? Not just on the surface."

"I _died_," Bobby spat. "Sitting in the library. I died and no one even fucking cared!"

Annie sighed and sat next to him on the bed. "Bobby, you know that's not true," she said softly, one hand on his shoulder so she could manipulate him into the best position for her to study him. "No one knew, Bobby."

"I know that," Bobby snapped. "That's not the point," he insisted.

"What is?" Annie asked smoothly.

"I died," Bobby said miserably, "and I'm still here and I_ died_. It was the scariest thing I've ever been through, and I was entirely alone and I woke up alone and I don't even know how long I was dead for, or when it even happened."

"Hushhh," Annie soothed. "What does it feel like when I do this?"

"Warm," Bobby sniffed. He didn't want to start crying again, but if he going to cry on anyone's shoulder Annie would be appropriate. He'd been so shit scared and he'd fought it so hard, and when he lost the capacity for coherent thought at least he'd known he could never go through that again. And then he'd woken up. There hadn't even been a flash of ecstasy. All he wanted to do was to sleep, perchance to _die_.

"How about here?"

"Ow. Hurts."

"You've been picking at it, haven't you?" Annie scolded softly.

"I just want to rip it out." Bobby pressed fingers to the inner corners of both eyes, squeezing out a few errant tears to wipe away with those self same fingers. "Have you noticed I'm clear now?"

"Yes," Annie bit her lip. "I suppose your vital organs must have been absorbed." She sighed. "I'm not cut out for this. I'm a nurse. I fix broken bones and large cuts and bad colds. This genetic stuff is over my head."

"Wish Moira w' still 'live," Bobby mumbled.

"So do I," Annie said candidly. "You really ought to talk to the professor about this, or Hank. He was the one who cured the Legacy virus, after all. Both of them would know more about what to do than I ever could."

"I'll tell people in my own time," Bobby insisted.

"You mean when it's obvious what's wrong anyway?" Annie asked wryly, echoing Hank's earlier sentiment.

"What happened to Jean Paul?" Bobby changed the subject.

"Went back to Canada. When did you last eat?"

"A while ago. I don't have a digestive system any more. I just drink a lot. How does everyone know that's where he is? Alpha Flight call or something?"

"No, he left a note," Annie said quietly. Bobby turned to look her in the eye. "He said he was going back there but... no one's heard anything. I really don't understand how this works, you know. Without a heart to pump the blood your brain ought to have shrivelled up."

"Nice imagery. I appear to be bleeding water now, or something like it. What else did the note say?" Bobby asked, unable to stop himself. He was surprised to find that he actually wanted to know.

"Mostly that he was sorry for his abrupt departure. He said something had occurred that made him unsuitable to hold a position here any longer." Annie looked at him coldly.

"He found out," Bobby told her. "About me."

She frowned. "You mean..." he gestured vaguely at his chest.

"Yeah," Bobby said. "Guess I'm not so attractive to him after all."

"You knew he..." Annie cocked her head to one side. "What did you say to him?"

"A lot of stuff. I don't really remember," Bobby shrugged. "He was talking about me saying if I wanted him to back off, and, I don't know, I said something like 'it's not just you, it's everyone'. Not people I want to back off, people I'm attracted to," he explained. "And then he turned me around, saw the cold cancer, and fled as fast as he hyperspeed could take him."

Annie frowned. "You find him attractive?"

"I think you just missed the point entirely," Bobby said frostily. "I repulsed him."

"That's a bit drastic," Annie told him.

"So why didn't he come back later and apologise? I waited for him," Bobby added. "Face it, I terrified him, and he's never coming back. I'm sorry I scared your friend away. You can see why I'm less than willing to tell _my_ friends, can't you?"

"Bobby Drake," Annie shook her head, smiling slightly. "Oh, honestly."

She leant in and kissed him gently. Bobby's hand shot and grabbed her arm in a vice like grip, clamping her close. She pulled back regardless, still smiling.

"You are no less attractive now than you were before this happened. You have to stop worrying about that."

"You didn't see his face!" Bobby insisted. "But kiss me again, please."

"Do you like Jean Paul?"

"No, not really. He's an arrogant git and he runs away and leaves me cold and lonely on roofs."

"Apart from that?" Annie continued, quietly insistent.

Bobby shrugged awkwardly. "Well, he's attractive, and a good kisser. And I guess he's kinda funny." He shut himself up.

"Well?" Annie raised an eyebrow.

"You're a bitch," Bobby snapped. She looked hurt. "I don't need this right now. Hopes," he waved a hand in emphasis. "All these hopes. Nothing ever happens. I just end up feeling let down and miserable, _again_. I had _hoped_ Jean Paul wouldn't freak out, I had _hoped_ that maybe, just maybe, I could enter something vaguely resembling a relationship, even if it was with a man. I guess not. So don't start me up again," he warned finally.

Annie sighed. "Well, I guess I'm done here. When you feel a bit more open with your friends, come down to me and I'll do a blood test, to see whatever you've got instead."

"Why when I feel more open with my friends?" Bobby asked suspiciously.

"Because Beast is the one who'll know how to analyse it, not me. Just don't leave it too late, okay? For all you know this could have been reversible from the beginning."

Bobby's face darkened. "I hope not," he muttered. "If it was reversed now I'd die. Again."

"And you don't want to feel like the idiot you are," Annie said smartly, climbing off the bed. "I think you ought to make an effort to get in contact with Jean Paul, but that's your prerogative. In the mean time, do something useful with yourself and stop sulking in dark corners. People are beginning to forget what you look like. Someone set up an Iceman trap in the kitchen downstairs, hoping to snare you when you got hungry."

"Fat chance," Bobby laughed. "I wonder, if I want a nice body from now on, do I have to chisel it myself?"

"With your talents you might be able to make yourself look like anything you want to," Annie told him from the doorway. "I'm going to drop by every few days, if I get the chance. You _could_ make my life easier and come by the infirmary instead, if you want to preserve your privacy."

"I'll think about it," Bobby sighed. "Will that do?"

"It's better than anything else I've gotten out of you recently," Annie told him with a smile. Rolling her eyes, she left him in peace.

Bobby rolled onto his stomach and dug around the mess on the floor until he found what he was looking for. He flicked through the address book of his cell phone and smirked when he found the name. He couldn't remember whose idea it had been to make certain everyone had everyone else's number, but he was thankful. Someone deserved a little extra guilt right about now, Bobby felt. After all, if you abandoned someone in the night, wouldn't you want to know that they died the next day?


	4. Part 4

**Part Four – To be, or not to be, why am I asking myself this question?**

_A/N: much thanks of Fata Morgana, who pointed out that Northstar was never the leader of Alpha Flight. I'll be correcting that once I've finished the fic. I've never managed to get hold of any of the Alpha Flight comics, so my knowledge of Northstar comes from any x-men interaction. _

_I know I said I'd probably update this every day, but inspiration decided to skip the middle bit of the story, so it's been a bit hard to write. This and the next chapter were originally all one, but it ended up huge. So now this one's a bit short. Oh well._

_Oh, and if 'mobile phone' appears somewhere instead of 'cell phone', sorry again. I'm English, so I actually have to think to call it a 'cell'. _

Apparently not.

In retrospect it hadn't exactly been a well thought out idea. If Bobby had Jean Paul's number, so did the rest of the X-men, and chances were they'd tried his cell already.

And the guy had probably looked down at his caller ID and chucked the thing out of his window. Bobby could imagine it, sticking out of the snow and ringing helplessly. Snow lighting up as the face did, different colours.

It was kind of a sad image. If Bobby could paint, he'd have painted it. Sold it for millions. Come on, it was better than that filthy bed that woman in Britain had sold. Modern art was all about sensationalism. Bobby could be Sensational. Take off his shirt and he was walking art.

Actually... He posed in front of the mirror. He'd only bought the full length mirror when this had started. The light above wasn't good for this, but if he opened the curtains it came flooding through him, reflecting off the mirror and around the room. There was the wall behind him, his favourite posted and the edge of the chest of drawers. Up towards the top the ice was thicker again, more purple. He could see the beginnings of veins.

The point was, it didn't look so bad. Of course, when Jean Paul had seen it you could still see the traces of organs. That was probably a bit creepier, right? This was almost pretty. Like if he caught the light at the right angles – yes, left a bit, yes, that angle – then he filled with rainbows. Like the cell phone's light on the snow.

He sighed. The edges of the ice were raw and slightly sticky, but not as red as he'd expected. Expected? Hoped. He wondered if he really was bleeding water now. Whether it was water everywhere, or just around the ice. Whether his brain was ice as well, or still flesh fed with water. Might be worth going to Hank, to find out. It would be worth knowing. How far had the affliction spread, internally? Was he going to find his limbs filling with blood clots with nothing to move the heavy liquid around any more? What was going to happen to his brain?

He wandered into his small bathroom and picked up a razor. He admired the light on the edge for a second, mind elsewhere, back with the cell phone and the snow. He worried that he was obsessing over that image. Maybe it had some Freudian significance or something. Phone probably meant penis, right? Most things did. Oh, except baldness, Bobby remembered. He hadn't been able to look at the Professor straight for weeks after learning about that. He'd had to tell Hank one day before his sides split. They'd laughed about how strange Freud had been. Honestly, who else would come up with the idea that baldness equalled castration?

Bobby pressed the razor to his wrist, still chuckling at old jokes. The cold brief touch of metal brought him out of his reverie. He chucked it into the sink violently. What was he thinking? Was he going to start cutting himself now? Another cry for help. First the insane bitterness to everyone else, then disappearing for days, then would he be cutting and taking hundreds of paracetamol?

Bobby shook his head firmly. That was going to be the line he would not cross. That had to be one, somewhere. And even if he was slitting his wrists in the name of science, it wasn't the right thing to do. The right thing was to go downstairs, tell Hank hat was happening to him, and let a professional deal with it. And not whine about dying alone.

Even if they were pretty poor friends for letting him reach a state where he was thinking about doing these things. Honestly, how would they _feel_? Poor Bobby Drake, killed himself with sleeping pills because no one thought to check on him. No one forced him to tell them what was wrong. No one imagined that happy, cheerful Bobby Drake, the joker and clown, could have serious problems. Honestly, did they know the meaning of 'defence mechanism'?

He was shaking, violently. There was frost curling around the sink and he heard a pipe burst, somewhere. The water in the toilet crackled. Bobby let his head fall and clung to the sink to remain upright, fighting tears he knew would freeze on his face. He had to top this. He had to stop blaming them. Help was a handful of words away. Not even that. Just walk up to Hank and take off his shirt, and then they'd be all over him. Wouldn't they?

He sniffed. That was the kicker, of course. He knew they wouldn't recoil in disgust like Jean Paul. He wasn't scared of dying, not now he technically had. Even being stuck in one position wasn't too terrifying. No, what Bobby was scared of, and he forced himself to look himself in the eye in the mirror as he said it aloud, what he was scared of was:

"What if they say I'm making a fuss about nothing?"

He turned back to go into his room but for some reason, kept his eyes on his reflection. He used to play games with himself, seeing how much of his head he could see, watching how the eyes appeared to stay in the same place while the head moved. But this time, as he reached the furthest he could see, it went abruptly out of focus. Like there was something in the corner of his eye.

Bobby snapped his head back around and stepped up to the small bathroom mirror until his nose was touching it. Hands clenched on the sink he stared at the corner of his eye. A moan escaped his throat.

It was there. The ice was there. Just spider-webbing its way out from the corner of his eye. Not too visible yet, but obviously growing. New.

The damn stuff was no longer just growing from Black Tom's wound. Maybe it had moved through the blood (water?), or maybe it was just launching its attack from all angles anyway. Spontaneous growth. Bobby's head dropped and he felt the crown of his head rest against the mirror. Now he did want to slit his wrists, and not under any scientific pretext.

Instead, he stood up. He walked away from the mirror, out of the bathroom. He didn't look at the full length mirror. He pulled on a shirt and put on his favourite sunglasses. He sat on the bed. He didn't cry.

He was still sitting and not crying when his alarm went off. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a second. Morning already? He hadn't even slept. Just stared at the wall and kept his mind so carefully blank Buddhist monks would have envied his meditational skills.

It was morning. That meant shaving, right? Getting ready to teach. Shirt and tie and no sunglasses. Hah!

Bobby shot himself only the most cursory of glances in the mirror. None of the ice was visible, but he really looked like shit. Five o'clock shadow, rings under his eyes that were beginning to make him look like his secondary mutation was a panda, greasy and limp hair. Looked like he'd been put through the ringer. He had, emotionally. Looked like he was recovering from the worst hangover in history.

Heh, like the students would _care_. They probably would think he'd been out drinking, and like him more for it. He was closer to their age than most. He was a popular teacher. He was funny. He was cool. He was approachable.

He was going mildly insane, but oh well. Anyone who knew him had come to that conclusion when he'd offered to teach accountancy.

He grabbed a video from the shelf and scooped up his lesson plan from the floor with one foot. Today, the different types of accountancy. Something nice and non stressful so he could maybe even get some sleep.

* * *

He woke to the sounds of "...dull, dull, dull, dull, _dull__!_" Ah, yes, Monty Python's chattered accountants sketch. So that was a very short nap.

"Bo- Mr Drake?" The voice was unmistakable. Bobby kicked his legs off of the desk and set up.

"Hey, Mr McCoy," he grinned. There was something so amusing about using surnames. It was like playing mummies and daddies as kids. Perhaps the others were right about his maturity if he still found it funny.

"I was wondering if I could speak to you in private."

"Now?" If Bobby had still had a stomach, it would have curdled. "I'm teaching."

"You were sleeping," one of the students pointed out, smothering a laugh.

"Oi," Bobby waved a finger at the boy in mock admonition. "Hush now."

"Bobby." Hank's voice was gently insistent.

"I'm coming," Bobby sighed. "You lot keep quiet and, I dunno, watch the video until it runs out. If you 'get' it, you're probably British."

As he followed Hank out of the classroom he began to feel distinctly sick. It made no sense, what with not having a stomach, but Bobby figured it was psychosomatic and left it at that. He had no idea how to cure psychosomatic sickness. Maybe imaginary antacids?

"I'm... surprised to see you teaching," Hank said hesitantly. He seemed to be leading Bobby somewhere. The Iceman didn't object to the walk.

He shrugged. "I guess I don't look a hundred percent, but I feel pretty good," he lied.

"Bobby," Hank sighed heavily. "Look, let's not be idiots, okay?" He stopped him in the middle of the corridor. "No jargon, no jokes, yes?"

"Okay," Bobby swallowed.

"Something is wrong with you. What?"

Bobby closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. "You said you'd let me tell you when I was ready," he whispered.

Hank closed a hand over Bobby's shoulder. "I'm asking you as a friend, Bobby. When we reach the professor's office I'm going to have to ask you as a fellow x-man, I don't want to have to hear it like that."

Bobby stared at him. "We're going to Xavier's office? Why?"

"Bobby..."

Bobby shook his head and stepped back. "I won't be forced, Hank. I won't!"

"Calm down, please. There's no need to get hysterical," Hank said soothingly. "Everyone's worried about you, Bobby. Xavier is talking to Annie right now. I..." he glanced away. "I'm a little hurt that she knows and I don't."

"As a friend or as a professional?" Bobby breathed.

Hank looked pained. "As a friend, Bobby, of course as a friend. Why are you so defensive? Did we do something to hurt you, to make you doubt our friendship?"

Bobby wrapped his arms around himself. "No," he admitted, "but I did anyway and now I feel like scum, which I not want I need on top of everything else."

"Once it's out in the open we can sort it out," Hank insisted. "Please, Bobby."

Bobby shook his head again. "If Annie's telling anyway, I don't see why I should have to. I don't want to see anyone. Just... leave me alone."

Hank looked disappointed, but appeared to give in. "This won't take long, Bobby." He started down the corridor again.

Bobby was about to follow him when a thought occurred to him. "This is because of Northstar, isn't it?"

Hank visibly winced and Bobby started retreating before he could begin to speak. "You were the last to see him," Hank began to turn around. "Annie said you might- Hey, where are you going?"

"Dunno!" Bobby called back over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Hank, I am."


	5. Part 5

**Part Five – How do you define 'friend'?**

Bobby stared around him. He'd had some conception that Quebec was one of the colder parts of Canada, but it hadn't really sunk in. No wonder Jean Paul was good at withstanding low temperatures. Bobby was knee deep in snow and no one seemed to see that as particularly abnormal.

_Well, _he told himself, _at least if I lose it here no one's going to notice. I doubt I could drop the temperature much lower if I tried._ The snow was never going to be a barrier to someone who could walk through it like Bobby could, but he'd forgotten the language barrier entirely. Hailing a taxi didn't get him anywhere, especially when he realised that he wasn't certain of where he was going. Shrugging and shaking his head at an uncomprehending driver he waved the man away.

He'd been to Alpha Flight's headquarters before, but that hadn't seemed like an appropriate place to start. He knew they were probably looking for Jean Paul as well by now, and he knew they probably had a considerably better chance of finding him, but Bobby couldn't bring himself to ask for help. He wasn't even certain he wanted to see Jean Paul at all. He'd just found himself halfway to the airport, passport in hand, before he could really think about what he was doing.

Jean Paul had freaked out, he reminded himself sternly, frowning at the frozen landscape. He'd fled. He'd even gone so far as to move to another country. But right now, he was the person Bobby wanted to see, and it had yet to make sense to the young man.

How was he going to do this? Pick a direction and start walking? Ask directions to deserted houses, since god knew Jean Paul wasn't the most sociable of people? No, that wasn't quite true. He was just one of those people who managed to be alone when surrounded by people. He distanced himself. It kinda made him attractive. That whole mysterious loner skit.

Was he thinking of Jean Paul as attractive? What had he said to Annie... Good kisser, funny, _attractive_. Yeah, Jean Paul was attractive. And not just 'for a guy'. Bobby began to wander through the small town surrounding the airport. Okay, Jean Paul was attractive. Bobby was attract_ed_. That could explain why he was in the middle of bloody _Canada_. Bobby Drake was attracted to a man.

New concept: Bobby Drake was attracted to _men_.

Okay, let's see. Well, not unfeasible. Had chosen a job working with attractive men in lycra. And there had been that point, hadn't there, when he'd dreamt about Warren a few times? Real, strong dream, powerful and mind-numbing and had had him unable to look at his team mate for months. Could have been a crush. Probably had been a crush.

He hadn't gone running to Warren, though, had he? Of course, they weren't nearly as close as they had been. Though Bobby still counted him among his best friends, didn't he? And he hadn't even told Hank, who he was still very attached to. And had left in a corridor at the institute. It had been easier to let Jean Paul know what was going on than either of his friends. Even easier to let Annie know. Perhaps he'd been less scared of getting hurt?

No, that couldn't be it. When Jean Paul had flown off it had ripped his heart out. Comparable to seeing Lorna in her wedding dress. He hadn't expected it to be that painful. And he'd kind of admitted then, hadn't he, that he found Jean Paul attractive? He'd been willing to take a chance and show Jean Paul, because there was a possibility of getting something out of it. A relationship. A relationship with Jean Paul.

Thought: relationship suggested more than physical attraction.

Bobby stopped in the middle of the street and shoved a hand through his hair in utter frustration. Why was he even bothering? He could have just gone back to his parents. Sure, his dad would have freaked out, but he was used to that. It wasn't like Jean Paul freaking out. He could have gone to Japan, and found Opal. Sure, that was a shit idea, but look at where he was. Quebec. At least Opal had had a real reason to reject him, not some superficial thing like this.

He was standing outside a public building, some town hall or other, when his cell rang. For a moment he was tempted to stick it in a snow bank and watch, but he kept it in his hand. The number was that of the Xavier Institute. God help them if they thought he was going to answer it. Annie had probably told them everything by now. He rubbed at the corner of his ice-affected eye as the small thing buzzed and rang and lit up. He really ought to change the ring tone.

Eventually it stopped, but Bobby waited patiently, watching. It wasn't long before the little voicemail icon appeared. He might not want to talk to them right now, but Bobby supposed he ought to hear what they had to say.

"Bobby?"

The nervous voice was female. Not Xavier, by any stretch of the imagination, though Bobby cracked a grin at the idea.

"Bobby? Oh honestly, Bobby." Nervousness snapped to irritation in a millisecond. "If you're angry with me, you're an idiot," Annie sighed. "Everyone's looking for you now. I don't know where you are, but making an educated guess, I'll say you're in Canada."

Wow. Bobby stared at the box of circuits. How did Annie...

"That's where Carter thought you might be."

Oh, of course.

"I have Jean Paul's last address. It's old, and I doubt he's there any more, but it's a starting point. I'm going to give it twenty four hours before I tell Xavier my suspicions. Guess I feel a bit guilty, I don't know, but I've never known someone as pigheaded as you, Bobby, when it comes to asking for help."

She recited the address and said a brief goodbye, but lacking anything to write on or with Bobby simply saved the message. He probably wouldn't have been able to spell half of it anyway. Now the problem arouse, yet again, of asking directions.

He listened to the message again and turned around slowly, surveying the street. He wondered if there was any way to tell someone who only spoke Joual from someone who could cope with a bit of English. As he completed his turn he found himself staring at a map. Heh. Weren't town halls wonderful? This one apparently doubled as a tourist information board, the tourist information consisting of a map showing where the airport was.

Bobby kicked the ground when he realised it wasn't even the right town. And for a moment there he'd been so hopeful. A bunch of leaflets were jammed under a plastic case, and disinterestedly Bobby pulled one out. Hey, English! 'Welcome to Quebec' it read, and Bobby felt the place was rather more welcoming.

The map on the inside helped him find the town, which wasn't so far from here. And the map behind him seemed to indicate some kind of bus route. Go Bobby! Now all he had to do was work out if Jean Paul still lived there. He pursed his lips. Now, where would he find bus times? And more detailed local maps?

He wandered through the town, oddly elated. For the first time in ages he felt like he had some control over his life. He was in charge, finding things out and making plans. It wasn't some block of ice in charge. He wasn't taking orders from someone who'd barely been with the x-men ten minutes. He wasn't being forced to think about absolutely everyone else. Selfishness was a good feeling, once in a while. Being alone.

He stumbled across a post office and stepped in, surprised at the warmth. Was he so far gone he didn't notice the subzero temperatures outside?

"Bonjour!" the clerk behind the counter greeted him cheerfully.

"Ah, oui, bonjour," Bobby managed.

"You are American," the clerk observed in English.

"You speak my language!" Bobby beamed and strode over to the counter. "Thank you!"

The man laughed. "Thank my high school teachers," he said, almost fluently. "Are you on holiday?"

"No," Bobby shook his head. "I am looking for a friend."

"He lives here?" the man smiled.

"Sort of. I have an address, but he might have moved."

"This is the sorting office for the local towns," the man informed him. He laughed at the shock on Bobby's face. "It is much larger behind."

"Oh, I see," Bobby smiled. "So, you can help me?"

"I can try."

Bobby repeated the address, trying not to mangle the pronunciation too badly, to the helpful young man. He was blond with dark eyes and a scar along his cheekbone. _Cute, _Bobby decided, practicing his newfound bisexuality, _but not my type_.

"Ah yes, we have a forwarding address for that one. He came in only a few days ago to change it." The man smiled. "Monsieur Beaubier, oui?"

"Oui," Bobby breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm not a crazy fan, you understand. I actually know him."

"Of course you do," the clerk smiled. "How would you have known he was here otherwise?"

"Of course," Bobby said, feeling slightly helpless in the face of all this cheerfulness.

"I will give you his forwarding address, friend of Monsieur Beaubier. How are you planning to get to him?"

"Bus, I guess. I don't know."

"He lives far from any bus. You might take a taxi cab," the man mused, scribbling down the address left-handed. "I write it down," he explained, "so you can show it to people rather than say it."

Bobby grimaced good naturedly. "Screwed it up, didn't I?"

The young man laughed. "Bad, yes, badly."

Bobby shrugged. "I tried. So, is it far?"

"Closer than his old house. Five miles North of here, maybe?"

"Huh, that's not so bad. I could walk that," Bobby thought aloud.

The clerk looked horrified. "You will freeze!"

Bobby sighed, not even finding it funny any more. "Perhaps," he shrugged.

"Perhaps? You do not care?"

Bobby picked up the paper and turned to go. "Thanks for all your help. Do I owe you?"

"Nothing," the clerk stuttered. "Just do not walk, okay? I shall call him to make certain you arrived, you know."

Bobby glanced over his shoulder as he pushed open the door. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "a few days ago I would have said that's probably more than most of my friends would do for me, but that's not really true."

"Perhaps you should call your friends," the clerk offered.

"I will," Bobby promised. "Hey, Comme tu t'appelle?"

The clerk laughed and Bobby figured he'd screwed up again. "Je m'appelle Claude."

"Je m'appelle Bobby," Bobby said. "It was nice meeting you."

"I _will_ call," Claude said firmly. "Don't walk."

"Thanks," Bobby grinned. "Means a lot."

The door swung shut behind him and it occurred to Bobby that he hadn't felt so liked in a long time. He hadn't liked any one so much for a while either. Perhaps when you were friends with someone for a long time you took them and your feelings for them for granted. It occured to him that when he got back, he'd put a bit more effort in.

It also occurred to Bobby that he had no idea which direction was North.

* * *

It was a small house, one story, built with the door far above the ground. The paint was peeling and one of the shutters was lying on the ground, but it looked well used rather than unloved. The shutter was just waiting patiently, not abandoned.

Bobby ran a hand along the side of his face, reminding himself of the growing ice there. It seemed to be growing fast here, almost visibly. The thought terrified him. This wasn't like the deep freezer at home, where he could count on someone finding him sooner or later if anything happened, or where he could step outside and be warm again. This was the middle of nowhere, snow spread for miles in every direction. There was no escape from the cold here.

He stumbled up the steps and thumped the door clumsily, fingers too stiff to curl into a fist. He'd be better off icing up, but the thought scared him. What if he couldn't go back?

There was no answer, but Bobby spotted a light he hadn't noticed before disappear. He knocked again.

"Jean Paul?" he called softly. "It's me, Bobby."

No answer, still. He knocked again and went on, "I saw the light, Jean Paul. I know you're in there." He paused awkwardly. "Or, you know, if you're not Jean Paul, can you tell me where to find him?"

When the silence continued Bobby sighed heavily. He knocked on the door hard enough to dislodge snow from the porch above. "Look, if you don't open this thing I'm going to sit here until you do. A siege. I'll wait until you run out of food."

A muffled voice finally can from within, heavy with French accent. "You have no food."

"I don't need to eat," Bobby said. He climbed down the steps, careful not to slip, and wandered around the house until he found a more sheltered spot. Digging a nest with his boots he settled with his back to the side of the small house.

He figured the Canadian would let him in sooner rather than later. It had started to snow again. And if Jean Paul liked him, he wouldn't let him die. No matter how badly he'd screwed up.

Right?

* * *

Bobby sang to himself to pass the time. As irritatingly and as off key as he could manage. Who wouldn't let him in, just to shut up him up? Jean Paul, apparently.

It was when the sun came up the next morning that he began to get _really_ scared. Nights were long here, and cold. Well, pretty much everything was cold. The snow had frozen over in the night. Half of the right side of Bobby's face had done the same. Opening his mouth hurt. He could feel the ice tugging at the corner of his mouth, a tendril curling in at the corner and tracing filigrees across the inside of his cheek.

Lights went on and off inside the house, and for a long time the radio was on particularly loudly. It continued into the next night, starving Bobby of any sleep he might have attempted. At least he didn't need to fear freezing to death. The radio clicked off while it was still dark, apparently keeping the occupier up as well. It made Bobby hope, but no one emerged.

The next morning most of his bottom lip was ice, but that was no longer his main concern. Even though he was in the middle of nowhere, with no one around apart from the house owner who had very firmly closed the curtains over where he sat, he still glanced furtively around before sliding a hand into his pants. Most of his torso was ice now, his abdomen a clear plane down to well below where his trousers hung.

It was cold, but it was still flesh. Bobby traced ice-water veins along the length of his cock. If Jean Paul didn't come out today, there was no point staying. He wouldn't have anything to offer him anymore. Who wanted a lover they couldn't make love to?

Jean Paul didn't come out that day. Bobby made the decision to ice over completely as the temperatures dropped and dropped. What did it matter if he couldn't turn back any more? He would wait until light before leaving. He'd announce his attentions to the house, maybe even explain why so Jean Paul wouldn't think he'd just given up, and then trudge back to the airport. Like he had so many times before, Bobby wished he could fly.

Watching the sun rise through crystalline eyes made Bobby want to cry, but he couldn't like this. So it was over. He knew the end of the story. The brave hero struggled through his affliction alone, and never got the girl. Boy. Anyone. The brave hero died alone and virginal. Maybe he could die in the snow? Maybe he couldn't die at all, Bobby reminded himself. He could fail to pull himself back together, but he wouldn't be dead He'd be a mind without a body, until such time as he chose to have a body again.

"Sucks to be Bobby," he murmured aloud, forcing himself to stand up. His frozen clothes crackled and resisted. He stumbled around to the front of the house. At least the radio wasn't back on.

"Look," he announced, not even bothering climb the steps and knock on the door, "I am now mostly ice. All the important bits. So I'm going home. Or somewhere, I don't know. Anyway, there's nothing left you'd be interested in, so there's no point me sitting out here any longer."

He turned away but paused. This might be the last person he ever spoke to, even if they didn't speak back. The Xavier Institute looked less and less appealing with every passing second. The pity and his own shame for needing to be pitied.

"Say bye to Hank and Warren for me. I'd say Jean and Scott too, but they've got enough problem of their own they won't have noticed I'm gone. The Professor'll know anyway."

No, that wasn't it. That wasn't what he needed to say. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't know what it was. Should he just leave? It would make sense than standing with his back to the house of someone he wasn't even one hundred percent was Jean Paul talking solidly until the right words came out. So why did he want to do that?

"If you're not Jean Paul," he said, "tell him I loved him."

That was it.

He began to walk away, gliding through the thick snow easily. It wasn't parting for him, it was becoming him. Emma Frost had once demonstrated he could do the same with water. Hell, if he lay down he could probably force himself all the way to the airport in a matter of seconds, or anywhere else he wanted to be. Maybe he _should_ go to Japan.


	6. Part 6

**Part Six – Would you have it any other way?**

_AN: thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. This would be the last chapter, and longest by far. Hopefully most of the holes get plugged and the plot tied up, and most of all, hope you enjoy it._

_A note to Fata Morgana – My knowledge of Canadian geography comes down to "Wow, you can by an island in __Nova Scotia__ for £40,000! We could sell our house and have enough left to buy another one, as well as the island!" So I fold automatically to all your points about Quebec and Montreal (Montreal's in Quebec though, right), with one vague disclaimer: it was Bobby's PoV, and he strikes me as the sort of person to call any province of a country he's unfamiliar with as the middle of teat country, in the same way it would be the middle of nowhere._

At first he thought the footsteps where his own, but then they grew faster and out of time with his own plodding feet. They grew faster until he couldn't hear one from another and a hand grabbed his wrist and he spun, ready to attack. The man clinging to his wrist was bent over panting.

"I was worried I'd spent the last few days camped outside some stranger's house," Bobby blurted.

Jean Paul pulled himself upright, eyes slightly unfocused. "I didn't know I could go that fast," he managed.

They stared at each other. It began to snow again.

With Jean Paul's hand still clamped on his wrist Bobby de-iced as far as he could. He let his arm slip back, so that he was holding Jean Paul's hand. Ice was beginning to creep from under his nails, but at least for now he hold hands like a human. Jean Paul's fingers closed convulsively around his own, and he could feel Jean Paul's eyes on his ruined face. Right side almost entirely ice, neck and chin ice, right eye and nose ice. Just the left corner of his top lip remained of a once kissable mouth.

In Bobby's mind there would have been talking, and apologies, and getting to know each other. It would have happened slowly. It would have been too late by the time he was willing to let anything happen.

Jean Paul stepped in faster than the eye could see, wrapping one arm around Bobby's waist and yanking him in, and lowered his head to kiss Bobby with more passion than Bobby had ever known. His mouth fastened on that quarter of living lip, tongue tracing it and lips brushing it. When Bobby opened his mouth Jean Paul needed no further invitation. Bobby's hand clutched at Jean Paul's hair as he felt his legs go weak.

Jean Paul pulled away eventually, face almost smug. Bobby clung to him like a drowning child. A frozen tongue slipped out to brush the human part of his lips and he shivered at his own touch.

Even as they stood there Jean Paul's face began to fall. Bobby felt his non-existent stomach twist. Jean Paul forced a faltering smile and took his hand again, leading him back towards the far off house. Bobby squeezed the warm fingers as they walked, but he always stayed a step or two behind Jean Paul, letting the older man lead him. He was too deep in thought to lead himself.

The house was in sight when Bobby stopped. Jean Paul tugged on his hand. Bobby cocked his head to one side and looked at him.

"What did you expect, after the kiss?" he asked quietly. He had a pretty good idea, but he wanted to see if Jean Paul would admit it without too much prompting.

Jean Paul shook his head. "What do you mean?" He tugged on Bobby's hand. "It is cold out here, mon ami. Please, let us go inside."

"The cold doesn't bother me," Bobby said calmly. "Bothers you though, doesn't it?" His voice had an edge to it.

"Can we have this fight inside?" Jean Paul asked tiredly. "I know we're going to have it, but must we out here?"

"What did you think was going to happen when you kissed me?" Bobby pressed, hand tightening over Jean Paul's. They weren't going anywhere, and if Jean Paul thought he could drag Bobby somewhere he was in for a shock. If Bobby belonged anywhere, it was here.

"I don't know!" Jean Paul snapped. "Bobby, s'il vous plait!"

"You thought I was going to melt, didn't you?" Bobby raised his chin. "You thought, Jean Paul, that I was going to melt and be human and we'd live happily ever after."

"Don't you dare tell me what I thought!" Jean Paul snarled.

"It's not some fairy tale, Jean Paul. I'm dead."

Jean Paul stared at him then.

"I'm dead," Bobby repeated, more quietly. "I have no internal organs."

"Do you usually, when you take your ice form?" Jean Paul asked, surprisingly calmly.

"No, but I don't usually feel the intense pain of my heart giving out and my brain giving up," Bobby snapped. "You just flew away and I waited, and then I died. And I don't even know how long I was dead."

"Does it matter?"

Bobby blinked, taken aback. "I was dead," he repeated.

"Don't look it," Jean Paul observed coolly. "Though perhaps living people use their brains a little more often."

Bobby sniffed. "You're meant to be feeling incredibly guilty right now," he informed Jean Paul pettily. "You ran off and I died."

"I'd care more if you'd stayed dead."

"Why did you follow me?" Bobby's voice broke. "Why did you kiss me? What's going on here?"

"Always asking questions!" Jean Paul jerked his hand from Bobby's and stepped back, arms out and eyes rolling, head tilted to the heavens. _Overly dramatic_, Bobby thought, but the point was sinking in. "Have you ever accepted something for what it was?"

"I used to," Bobby told him, "but then I learnt that nothing was what it was." Jean Paul raised an eyebrow. "I mean... I mean that things changed. _I_ changed. I didn't want to. Why couldn't I-"

"Uh-uh," Jean Paul cut him off. "No more questions."

"I thought I knew who I was," Bobby struggled on, desperate to make Jean Paul understand. "And then I was a mutant who controlled snow, then ice, then water in all forms, then I could become it, then I could use it to practically teleport, and now I'm going to be water, forever. I've had gods using me, telepaths taking rides in my body, I've put myself back together from shattered pieces and I've put myself back together from _nothing_. I don't think there's a single molecule in this body that belonged to Bobby Drake."

"I thought identity crises were a teenaged thing," Jean Paul smirked.

Bobby hit him.

Since it felt good, he did it again.

Jean Paul blinked and brushed snow out of his hair. He hadn't expected the first punch, and he _really_ hadn't expected the second. Who punched on impulse twice, for heavens sake? And Iceman stood a few feet away, more ice than man, hands on hips and a speculative look on his face. And even sitting in the snow, pride bruised worse than his face and burning with shame, Jean Paul thought that slightly screwed up pout was... cute.

"One last question, Jean Paul, okay?"

"D'accord." Jean Paul nodded, fighting the childish urge to accuse Bobby of just using that question.

"Who am I?"

They regarded each other for a long, slow second. It was still snowing, and Jean Paul focused on the individual flakes rather than the eyes of the man he'd thought he loved, for a short while. He couldn't answer Bobby's question, but he could ask himself the same one. He didn't much like the answer that swam in his head. It made him want to yell at Bobby and send him away and not care if the boy had died or if he would die again. It made him want to shut himself up in his tiny house or run to his apartment in Montreal and lose the memories in people. It made him want to quit on his sister.

"Someone I don't deserve," he said, voice faltering and halting. "Like every other person on this damn planet."

"I didn't ask for a sob story, Jean Paul," Bobby snapped. "You can't say shit like that and expect me to believe it, not after the way you've acted. You're the most arrogant man I know."

Jean Paul raised his head. "I don't want your pity, Bobby Drake. I was just pointing out what you know damn well to be true."

"I'm glad you think so," Bobby growled, stepping forwards to tower over Jean Paul. "_I_ could have sworn I had some reason to come here."

"I don't know who you are, or why you're here," Jean Paul offered, slumping back in the snow. "But damn you're hot when you're angry."

Bobby snorted. Jean Paul looked up as the icy face crumpled with suppressed laughter. He reached down and pulled Jean Paul to his feet. They stood close and the electricity between them was palpable. Jean Paul bent in for another brief kiss, and Bobby obliged. Jean Paul smiled broadly against Bobby's lips and wrapped warm arms around the slender form.

"You're also pretty cute when you smile," he murmured, looking into dancing eyes.

* * *

Bobby accepted the hot chocolate with broad assurances than he wouldn't melt. Jean Paul still looked concerned, but frost was already spidering across the surfaces of the just boiled liquid.

"I suppose this is the part where we talk," Jean Paul said awkwardly, sitting opposite Bobby.

"I think we missed that part," Bobby sighed. "It probably should have come before the kissing."

Jean Paul rocked back in his chair, fixing his eyes on the dowdy ceiling. "I want you, Bobby Drake. I am not certain of much else, though."

"I don't understand how you can want me," Bobby sighed "I don't, any more. I'm not even sure if it's physically possible for me to have sex, and god knows what it would do to you if we tried."

"Do you know how long I've been single?" Jean Paul laughed bitterly. "I can certainly live without sex, Bobby Drake."

Bobby bit his tongue on another question hard enough to draw blood, or what passed for it in his body these days, and found some way to phrase his curiosity as a statement. "When you said you wanted me, I assumed you meant physically," he said cautiously.

"I find you physically attractive, very much so. But your company is also pleasant."

Bobby shook his head in confusion. "You mean you want to be friends," he hazarded.

"I mean I want us to-" Jean Paul cut himself off. Only ten minutes ago Bobby had been beating him into the snow. He didn't so much stand a risk of spooking Bobby as he did enraging Bobby and never seeing him again. Considering Bobby had been so adamantly straight for most of his life this was... this was emotional suicide. Jean Paul never took risks like this. His heart was battered enough from his sister's ministrations.

"I want us to be together," Jean Paul said slowly, still staring at the ceiling. "Forever. I do not care if we can not consummate our relationship. It will make these kisses the sweeter. I just want to be by your side."

"That sounded almost like a proposal," Bobby said, slightly overawed.

"You said you loved me." Jean Paul swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. "In the snow. I flew away and you came to find me. I locked you out and you waited for me. I was rude and cruel and arrogant, and you said you loved me."

"You haven't said it back yet," Bobby pointed out, voice tight.

"Is it stupid to say I know I want to spend my life with you, but I do not know if I love you?" Jean Paul managed.

"I suppose it depends on how you define love," Bobby said philosophically.

"I love my sister," Jean Paul said firmly. "And I have loved many friends over the years. I know what love is."

"But you're here alone. You love them but you don't want to be with them, and you're saying the reverse for me. You don't want to see them right now. Or... you do not want them to see you."

"After what I did to you? I want to drop off the edge of the world!"

"So did I," Bobby shrugged. "But I said I loved you, and I meant it."

"But why?" Jean Paul stared at him. "I still do not understand this one thing!"

"There isn't a why. You just accept it for what it is." Bobby's faintly pink lips curved in a teasing grin, echoing Jean Paul's words back to him.

Jean Paul took a deep breath. "So what does this mean? Do you want to stay with me?"

Bobby thought for a moment. "Yes," he said.

Jean Paul frowned in surprise.

"Yes," Bobby said again, nodding to emphasise his point.

Jean Paul pulled Bobby in for another cold kiss, and was surprised at the damp warmth. Bobby was somewhat stunned to be pushed back into his chair by a beaming Jean Paul. And then the smile broadened further. "Bobby, your mouth!"

Still human hands shot to his lips, and Bobby made a sound normally associated with female Beatles fans and piglets stuck in barn doors. "Oh god," he managed. "Oh god, oh god."

"It is like a fairytale," Jean Paul managed, grabbing the younger man in his arms and swinging him around.

"No," Bobby pushed away to catch his breath enough to talk. "It's like before!"

"Like when?" Jean Paul stared at him.

"After a fight with this guy Post, ages back now, I had a chunk knocked out of my chest, and I couldn't reform it no matter how hard I tried. Eventually, after a long talk with Emma Frost, I realised that it was because I was still moping over Opal and my father and everything and who knew my gift was so tied in with my emotions?"

"You've been freezing over because you're upset?" Jean Paul stared at him.

"I don't know! Because I've not been myself, or because I thought I'd always be cold and lonely, or because I pushing people away, or something! Point is, it's going." Bobby bounced on the balls of his feet. "And we'll be able to have sex and everything!"

"What about your organs?" Jean Paul said tentatively, not wanting to ruin the festivities.

"We'll cross the bridge when we come to it," Bobby told him. "Annie or Hank or someone will be able to help."

"Do they even know yet?" Jean Paul asked.

"Oh, I'll tell them," Bobby waved a hand dismissively. "We're not done celebrating yet." He reached out to tug on Jean Paul's waistband. They stood chest to chest, both breathing heavily and in time with each other. "You can't take back what you said, Jean Paul," Bobby murmured as he snaked his arms around the older man.

"I don't want to," Jean Paul told him. "Forever isn't a word I use lightly."

"Good," Bobby nestled his head against Jean Paul's chest. "And you're going to have to be more patient with me than you are with the kids at Xavier's. I don't even know the mechanics of, you know, guy on guy sex yet.

"Sex sex sex," Jean Paul rolled his eyes. "Is that all regaining your body means to you?"

Bobby laughed. "You offered everything else regardless," he pointed out. "You don't know what that means to me. You want to be around me for something real."

"I think I need to be around you. You need to start rubbing off on me," Jean Paul commanded. "I'm not used to people who take rejection with a pinch of salt and are willing to prove how wrong the rejector was."

Bobby raised his head for another long kiss. "I'm too used to people who reject someone they want to be with, that's all. I mean, I was the second ever X-man. I've seen more convoluted relationships than you have snowflakes. Just look at Rogue and Gambit."

"Mmm, Gambit."

"Hey!" Bobby pulled away with a laugh. "You're my boyfriend now."

Jean Paul smiled fondly. "Je t'aime," he said quietly.

"I know," Bobby said. Jean Paul cocked an eyebrow. "I'm also used to people who have a hard time knowing how they feel, let alone saying it," Bobby grinned. "Again, I'm an X-man."

"As am I now," Jean Paul pointed out.

"You know what _that_ means. Our relationship is never going to be anything approaching stable."

"Would you have it any other way?"

_Well, had to end it on a question, obviously. _

_Honesty time? The further I got with this fic the less I liked it. It went from light and fluffy to major angsty in the first two chapters, and now it's gone and swung back the other way. I had a strong urge to end it on a depressing note. So at some point it may (a)disappear, (b) have the middle re-written or (c) turn into two separate fics. On the other hand, I haven't actually read the whole thing through, just in the chapters I've been writing it, so maybe on the reread I'll like it better. Apart from the tone changes, there's nothing I hugely dislike about it. And since this has something resembling a plot, they are kind of necessary. And I like thae Emma Frost point (you go digging around on uncannyxmen.net you turn up allkinds of useful 'we're resuing old plot in a new way' titbits)._

_I don't know. If it's here in a few months I've decided I liked it. Normally if I write something I'm not sure about, I don't post it. I've got a lot of fics like this that I've dissected into other fics and it's worked quite nicely. _

_Anyway, now I've gone and rubbished my own work, feel free to join in!_


End file.
